


The Heart Of The Wolf

by curlspen



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (not that dark but he’s got issues), Aftermath of Sexual Assault, Aftermath of Torture, Also Jon had a crush on Sansa when they were kids, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Codependency, Dark Jon Snow, Dom Jon Snow, F/M, Half-Sibling Incest, Hurt/Comfort, I know that theory makes some people uncomfortable so fair warning, Jon Snow is King in the North, Jon Snow is Not a Targaryen, Light BDSM, Mutual Pining, PTSD, Possessive Jon Snow, Sub Sansa Stark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2020-01-09
Packaged: 2020-07-31 08:13:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20111941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curlspen/pseuds/curlspen
Summary: After saving Sansa from the Boltons, an already unhinged post-resurrection Jon becomes obsessed with protecting, and possessing, the last remaining family he has.





	1. Chapter 1

The Bolton army is defeated, they had no true loyalty and surrendered easily when they no longer had to fear Ramsay’s wrath. The monster’s severed head is in Jon’s red-black stained hands as he marches up to the chambers his sister is locked in. Sansa is sitting on the bed, her knees pulled to her chest like he remembered her doing when she was afraid during storms and scary stories. She doesn’t look at him, her eyes are staring at nothing and still wet with tears.

Jon is momentarily distracted by his sister’s shivering form, he’d had never seen so much of her. Even when they were little children it was only proper for them to see each other fully clothed but here Sansa is in only a paper-thin nightgown that falls off her shoulders and gathers up her thighs. And Sansa is not a child anymore, the years have given her soft curves everywhere that was once bony and shapeless. The years have also given her scars and bruises, some particularly nasty ones, but those do nothing to deter the familiar tenderness from swelling within Jon.

Jon steps closer, his fingers tightening in Ramsay’s greasy black locks and blood dripping with every step. Sansa’s face is the same as he remembered only matured, it‘s completely unmarred by the brutality etched into the rest of her skin. If he wrapped her in a blanket and made her smile then it’d be like no time had passed at all, no innocence lost.

Sansa’s eyes finally snap back to the present, they look from the severed head to Jon and back again and again until a painful-looking smile stretches her chapped lips and fresh tears drip down salt-stained cheeks. But for the first time in a long time, they are tears of joy.

Jon climbs onto the bed; itching to be closer to his long-lost sister. Sansa is the only family left to him now, it’s just them against the world. That both saddens and excites Jon, though he grieves deeply for his family, he can’t help the wave of excitement knowing that the most distant sister he’s pined for all his life is now his and his alone.

Sansa stares at Jon, her unexpected bastard-knight, for the first time in years and in a way she never had before. In her dreams, in her memories, she remembered a sullen, lanky boy on the cusp of manhood who was always unsure of his place in the world. But Jon has grown since then into a young man with a warrior’s confidence that Sansa found uncomfortably beautiful even with his tired eyes and blood-splattered face. Sansa can’t remember the last time she had bothered to look Jon in the eyes but now his gaze swallows her whole, orbs of dark fire boring into her like she is the most important thing in the world.

Sansa feels herself leaning closer to those eyes on instinct, wanting to get lost in the comforting dark. When Jon’s hands cup her head and pull her closer, Sansa doesn’t even think about the blood and ash staining her hair. In this moment there is nothing but she and Jon, two wolves finding warmth in each other, even Ramsay's still-warm blood seeping through the covers onto her leg doesn’t faze Sansa.

Jon kisses her with agonizing tenderness, the wolf in him wants to ravage this lovely and fragile girl in his hands but the brother in him wants to protect her, to covet her. Sansa's lips are cool and soft as silk, they tremble against his as Jon lifts her up into his arms.

Sansa doesn’t give her cell or the monster’s head a second glance as Jon carries her out, her face is burrowed in his shoulder as she memorizes his woodsy scent. It is the scent of freedom, the scent of home.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the late update! I hope to get more chapters posted soon

Winterfell doesn’t look much different, Sansa thinks. It’s been three weeks since Jon took it back from Ramsay and yet she still has to remind herself that the monster is dead and she is free. When she feels okay enough, she walks to the Godswood, sometimes taking the long way just because she can, and she asks the Gods to care for her departed family and bless Jon with a long and peaceful reign.

Sansa is determined to remember that this is her home and not her prison, she’s determined to feel safe here. Ramsay can’t take that from her. No one can. She tells herself this as she swallows down the wave of panic she feels every time she passes the threshold of her chambers, the tightening in her chest, the way her body screams at her to run or hide or run run run.

Today she managed to make it past the daunting threshold. Sansa sits under the tree long after she’s finished her prayer, looking up at the scarlet leaves swaying like little lovers against a pale sky. Through it all, her safe place has been with the Gods and the silence. Nothing could ever hurt her here.

The sky has dimmed to a grey when Jon ‘finds’ her, Sansa knows he knew she was here. He hasn’t let his eyes off of her since the night he saved her. When it’s not him following her, it’s one of his men not-so-subtly watching and reporting back, even Ghost has taken to following her when his master is busy.

Sansa’s already winter-nipped cheeks flush a deeper red at the memory of their reunion. If the Northmen were to find out how she’d thrown herself at her own brother, their beloved King... Sansa runs a finger through her long coppery hair, brushing out the thoughts with it. Jon promised not to tell. Stop thinking about it.

“Sansa.” Jon grunts by way of greeting.

“Jon.” Sansa exaggeratedly grunts back, an almost playful smile on her lips.

Jon’s returning smile is fond but tired, everything about him is tired these days.

“You must be getting cold, the sun is nearly set.” 

Sansa knows that voice, it’s Jon’s Kingly ‘I don’t want to order you but this isn’t a suggestion’ voice. It makes Sansa want to see what he’ll do if she doesn’t but her face is starting to hurt and her limps feel too stiff. He drapes an arm over her shoulders as he walks her to her chambers. Sansa doesn’t know if she’ll ever stop feeling so warm and safe when he touches her. She never wants him to stop, if she asked him he may agree.

When they reach her chambers, Jon immediately plops down on his large chair in the corner of the room. Sansa doesn’t know where her words come from until she hears herself say them.

“If you insist on sleeping in here then get in the bed. What good is a cranky King with a sore neck?”

Jon hesitates although she sees the flicker of excitement in his eyes.

“Are you sure? You’re not afraid of me?”

“Of course not, idiot. Get over here, I want to sleep.”

Jon crawls next to her tentatively, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Sansa's lips tingle as she imagines him crawling on top of her and kissing her again but her cheeks flush at the thought, she’d already humiliated herself enough the night they reunited and she doesn’t want to push that any further.

Sansa rolls onto her side with her back to him despite the bitter pang of loss she feels as she does. The feeling of Jon’s warmth at her back both deeply comforting and foreign. She isn’t used to sleeping with someone else, Sansa realizes, Ramsay never allowed himself to be so vulnerable with her knowing she wasn’t broken as Theon. When she goes to blow on her pink-tinted hands, they are caught by Jon before they can reach her mouth. Jon’s hands feel like fire kissing and licking her iced skin, she holds her breath as his hands fully engulf hers, his stubble tickling her neck as leans in.

What gave you the courage to touch my hands? It feels nice to have a friend. Sansa thinks fondly as she lets out her breath in an embarrassing little whimper. Jon mercifully doesn’t acknowledge her response. He knows it’s been a long, long since she’s been touched kindly and it takes getting used to.

Sansa hides her smile into her pillow as she soaks up Jon's warmth. it doesn't take long for her to drift into sleep, she feels safer with Jon beside her rather than in the corner of the room like a guard dog. Not just safer but less alone, she’s found loneliness is often a crueler master than fear. 

"It's nice to have a friend." Sansa mumbles aloud into her pillow before drifting into blissful darkness. Jon smiles, thinking about her words as he listens to her soft ladylike snoring. Jon hadn’t known snoring could sound ladylike until he started watching Sansa sleep. This is nice, he thinks as he follows her into sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

The North is at relative peace. Jon is beloved as a fair and capable young ruler but there are still whispers amongst the Northerners about how their King sleeps in his sister’s bed every night. The sister that has barely been seen since her rescue from the Boltons, Sansa Stark seems almost as much a ghost to the Smallfolk as she had been when she’d been captive in the south. Some wonder if Jon Snow has the same perversion as The Kingslayer, others wonder if Lady Stark has gone mad and that’s why the King shields her away, others believe it all to be nothing more than silly rumors spread by bored seamstresses. Only Ser Davos is brave enough to ask Jon about it.

“My sister needs me. She’s been severely mistreated and she’s afraid to sleep alone, I will not neglect her for fear of gossip.”

“I understand, my King, but may I suggest it is time she wed properly? We could find her someone honorable who will treat her gently -“

“No.” Jon interrupted, his voice closer to a growl than he intended. He swallowed, ignoring the rise of the old man’s brow. “The last thing Lady Sansa needs is another suitor, she’s still far too fragile even for a worthy husband.”

Jon tried and failed to not snarl the last words. No one is worthy of her. She’s mine. 

Ser Davos bowed his head slightly “As you say, my King. Well then, we do have the matter of trades to discuss...”

The sky was darkening from grey to black as Jon made his way back to his and Sansa's chambers. As wrong as he knows it is, he can't help feeling a pang of sweet satisfaction knowing that Sansa will be there. When she managed to leave their room, he felt like he was on the battlefield again, painfully focused on where she was and what threats were around her. His mind is only quiet when Sansa is safe and tucked away, he's only happy when he can feel her body heat or hear her voice. 

Ser Davos had mentioned rather hesitantly that there were rumors floating around about Sansa's mental state. No one knew it was Jon himself who has been a little mad since his resurrection. He isn't beheading innocents or talking to shadows but he feels the residue of death lingering cold and heavy in his bones. Sansa, the blood of his blood, the blood of Winterfell and wolves and home - she is all that warms the ache within him and illuminates the dark tendrils that creep along the outskirts of his mind. Jon knows he shouldn't think about his sister as much as he does or the way he does, maybe that's part of the madness too.

He creaks open the door, trying hard to relax his face which is presently twisted in feral hunger. Jon finds her slumped on the bed in a heap of wolf fur, her feet peaking out and sheathed in small boots. He approaches on silent, stalking footsteps...

—-

Sansa hasn’t been doing well. It’s been days since she’s been able to leave her room even to go to the Godswood. She’s is beginning to feel like a porcelain doll once again, shut away in the attic for safe keeping. She wouldn’t say that she feels like a prisoner, she’s been a prisoner long enough to know that it is a far worse feeling but she does feel trapped. It’s not that Jon won’t let her out of her chambers, not exactly, the door isn’t locked and the guards won’t force her back to her room if they see her wandering but she still can’t manage to step past the threshold of the doorway without feeling like her chest is being sat on (she speaks from experience).

Today, Sansa is going to try again. She’s done it before. She can do it. She takes her sweet time lacing up her winter boots and making sure her furs hang over her shoulders just right. She redoes her hair three times while staring blankly at the pale and frightened girl in the mirror. Her once ruddy and pretty face is still slightly sharp from the weight she’d yet to completely gain back.

After braiding her hair for the third time and being unable to find any flaws to excuse her redoing it, Sansa takes a deep breath and stands on numb legs. Numb like when she walked through the icy lake, the water biting mercilessly up her body and the screaming of hounds in the distance that threatened to do the same. Biting, biting, biting...the image covers her eyes like a blindfold; looking up a steep hill, black branches poking though the snow like teeth through gums. A dead world, Sansa thinks.

When Sansa comes to, she’s leaning against the wood frame of the bed as if her legs had given up. She blinks rapidly, feeling the solid wood under her palm and taking in her surroundings. This isn’t her cell, this is her parents room. This is her and Jon’s room. This is a safe place. Sansa is safe. She knows that but it doesn’t feel safe anywhere else, she glares at the doorframe as tears of frustration and shame trickle down her cheeks.

I can’t do it, I don’t have the wolf-blood like Jon does and my little sister Arya did. I can’t be brave. Sansa thinks bitterly as she slumps on the bed, the boots now feeling mocking around her feet. The tears make her feel weak so she hides her face in the pillow to make them go away.

Sansa must have cried herself into a restless sleep because when she opens her eyes, Jon is sitting beside her with a gentle hand on her back. 

”Going somewhere?” Jon asks, the words are casual, non-accusatory but in the back of Sansa’s mind they echo in Ramsay’s mocking, venomous tone.

It takes her a moment to swallow down the jolt of irrational panic and answer. “I was just going to the Godswood but I suppose I lost track of the time.”

Sansa gives a mirthless, nervous chuckle. Jon smiles back sadly only to make her more comfortable. She places her forehead on his shoulder, looking at the darkness outside the window with defeat. Maybe tomorrow will be better. Maybe, the word lingers in her head as Jon gingerly removes her boots and tucks her into bed. She falls asleep before she sees the satisfied smile on Jon's face that is illuminated by the hearth's reddish light.


	4. Chapter 4

Sansa wakes to the white winter sun in her eyes and Jon’s arms wrapped around her like a blanket around a baby. For several moments, she lays completely still, afraid to disturb the purity of the moment. Such mornings have been the norm for the last blissful few days, but it still amazes them both to wake in loving embrace. Sansa wakes Jon with a kiss to his stubbled cheek. She keeps her eyes closed as her lips drift ever so slowly, ever so softly, to his lips. It’s nothing improper, Sansa tells herself, just the kind of kiss that you give someone you love. A very sisterly kiss that tastes of snowflakes.

Then, with his eyes still closed, Jon threads a hand into her untethered hair and eases his tongue into her mouth. His tongue coaxing hers into a sleepy, dreamy dance. Sansa knows she should pull away, that all things proper demand it of her, but Jon’s kiss is unlike anything she’s ever felt before; she hadn’t realized that a man’s touch was something that could be more than dutifully tolerated, that it could make warmth swell deliciously between her legs. I’ve suffered enough for the sake of what is proper, Sansa thinks as she nibbles at Jon’s lip with a delicate moan, proper owes me this one moment. Just one more moment, then I’ll stop, and we’ll never speak of this again (again), just one more moment, just one more…

A sharp knock at the door makes Sansa jolt back, her lips still glistening and her cheeks ruddy. Jon chuckles deeply. Sansa searches for mockery in his tone and face but finds only affection.

“No one will see us, sweet sister.” He whispers, tucking strands of the hair he’d disheveled behind her ear. “And if they did, well, I’m King, aren’t I?” 

There’s nothing to see, Sansa wants to retort, but settles for a half-hearted glare complete with a stuck-out tongue that Jon would have nibbled had the man’s next words not instantly chilled the warmth swelling within him.

“I apologize for my disturbance, My King, but Lord Petyr Baelish is at the gates! He’s demanding to see Lady Stark. He says he’s an old friend concerned for her well-being.” – Sansa gives a bitter scoff, her lips arching into a snarl that matches Jon’s. – “What are your commands?”

Sansa’s insides have turned from fluttering feathers to crushing stone. Petyr. No, Littlefinger. The friend she had known in Petyr was only a mask, the flesh beneath has always been Littlefinger. Sansa learned that when he sold her to Ramsay. The memory of the last time she saw Littlefinger leaves a bitter, acidic taste in her mouth. He had stolen a kiss that felt like cold worms against her lips and then left her at Ramsay’s non-existent mercy with a smile. Sansa’s jaw begins to ache from the clenching she didn’t realize she was doing, her stone chest becoming too heavy for her to breath in more than rapid huffs. 

Jon replies to the man behind the door while hastily dressing. Sansa hadn’t even noticed him get up, suddenly his absence feels like an extra kick in the chest. She crawls out of the mess of blankets, reaching out to grab Jon’s arm.

“I want you to kill him, Jon.” Sansa says, fingers digging into Jon’s furs, her voice pained but certain. “I need him to be gone, do you understand me?”

“Aye, he will die tonight.” Jon’s voice is unhesitant and unflinching. He places his hand over hers, giving her a gentle squeeze as she releases him.  
As he finishes lacing his boots, he turns to Sansa with eyes like black water, beckoning her to sink into their darkness. “You don’t have to be there.”

“Yes, I do.” I do not have a tender heart, Lord Baelish, my heart is hardy and half-wolf. “I need to.” Maybe I want to. I can’t tell anymore. 

Jon nods, an almost cruel smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Sansa has never seen such a smile on Jon’s face, it should frighten her, but it does not. She smiles back.

\---  
It all happened quite fast after that; Sansa thinks dully. The passage of time was merely a whisper only an hour ago, now time is moving with all the viciousness of Jon’s fists colliding into Littlefinger’s face. Jon had approached Littlefinger without a word, throwing him to the floor with ease, and leaving the silver-tongued devil himself without words. Sansa was glad for that; she was sure her heart would break if she had to hear a single word from the venomous mouth.

Sansa feels the crisp, salty residue of tears on her cheeks but by now her eyes have dried and Littlefinger has stopped making noises save the moist crunching sound of knuckles on cheek and jaw and nose. He’s probably dead. It’s what she had asked for and she isn’t sorry but…

She doesn’t know where to look other than at Jon; the mere thought of looking at the soup of blood and torn flesh that was once a face makes Sansa’s stomach churn, the thought of looking down at the recognizable robes of her false-friend makes her heart clench. Looking at Jon feels simple, safe. Even now when he is every inch a wolf in human skin, crouched over his prey, and blood-kissed face snarling as if it were made to snarl – but Sansa approaches, unafraid. I am a wolf too, and Jon is my pack. I have nothing to fear. 

A gentle hand on his shoulder halts Jon’s raised fist mid-air. He looks back at Sansa the way he had that morning; black-brown eyes swimming with violence. Sansa leads him to stand and step away from the forgotten body on the floor.

When she leans down and presses her lips to Jon’s, it tastes of warm flesh and a hint of copper. It feels real and painfully tender, Jon’s stubble tickling her chin and his moist, sticky hands clasped in hers. Sansa swallows down her revulsion and her thoughts about the body on the floor with surprising ease. This is not the safety of their bedroom and yet Sansa is strangely unafraid and unashamed, now certain in the fact that Jon will protect her no matter the brutality required. I am a wolf, and Jon is my pack. I have nothing to fear. Sansa thinks once again as she deepens the kiss, opening her mouth to allow Jon’s tongue entry.

It all happens quite slowly after that, Sansa thinks happily. Jon bites at her mouth like a man starved, like a wolf, and Sansa submits to every scrape of teeth. It doesn’t hurt, Sansa thinks, it sends jolts to her already throbbing womanhood. Their lips are red and hypersensitive by the time Jon eases her down to the ground. Blood stains the back of Sansa’s dress and feels sticky on her bare arms as she lies on the stone floor, but she feels far cleaner and happier than she has on any wedding night. She lets out a small whimper as Jon straddles her, the feel of his cock against her mound sends a shiver trickling up her spine.

Jon chuckles deeply, reaching to undo the laces of her dress with surprisingly deft fingers.

“Is this too improper for you, sweet sister?” Jon growls, ripping open Sansa’s dress, revealing her soft breasts to her belly button and eliciting a sharp gasp. “Or have you always, deep down, dreamed of having your perfect feathers ruffled by a bastard?”

Sansa speaks in a breathily as she wiggles her partially torn dress off her shoulders: "I dreamt of a King.” Sansa’s slender fingers trail the line of Jon’s collarbone, lingering on the crimson scar that marks his otherwise moon-kissed chest. “A King who would do anything for me,” Sansa admitted in a whisper.

“I’d do anything for you.”

Sansa believes him. The evidence is still wet on his knuckles, but Sansa isn’t letting her thoughts linger on that. 

Jon easily slides the skirt and undergarments off her raised hips. Sansa reaches for his furs, the furs she had sewn for him, before realizing that they are the only things that remain unstained with blood. He kept them clean, but he didn’t take them off either. Sansa’s heart lightens once more in her chest.

When Jon removes all his clothes except the cloak, Sansa doesn’t protest. The feeling of the furs enveloping them feels right. It feels right for them to make their love in the heart of the wolf.

“Do you really want me?” Jon whispers so quietly that Sansa wouldn’t have heard it if his mouth was not close enough for his stubble to tickle her cheek.

Sansa places a kiss on his shoulder, the one that is surely sore from – Sansa cuts off her own thought – as she takes Jon’s hand in both of hers, it is no longer wet but stained in a black like the dust of the night sky, and guides it to her throbbing cunt. Jon closes his eyes as Sansa presses her lips to his, as soft as a whispered promise.

“I want you. I need you. You are the matching half of my soul.” Sansa speaks the words into his mouth, and he swallows them down, letting them warm the residue of icy death in his bones.

Sansa feels impossibly hot and moist as she engulfs his finger, it doesn’t take long before he’s able to add his middle finger and then his ring and then…

“Jon, please! I won’t break, please!” I want you. I need you… Sansa’s vow echoes in the undercurrent of her plea and sends a jolt of pleasure through Jon’s groin.

Jon places a soft kiss to Sansa’s forehead, gentling the slight burn as he thrusts deep into her. Sansa cries out, Jon swallows her cries with another kiss. He does not use his teeth this time, and Sansa finds she misses them. She sinks her teeth into his bottom lip. 

Jon growls, the sound reverberating in Sansa’s mouth, and suddenly their mouths begin a fight for dominance that they both know Jon will win. Jon is no longer being gentle, and neither is Sansa. Her fingers slip under the furs to claw at his sweating back, her mouth wanders to nip at his flesh. She sinks her teeth into his chin, then his throat, then his shoulder; licking away the ache after every bite. 

It spurs Jon on to trust into her deeper and harder as if he can fuck her hard enough that she’ll never slip away from him, that she’ll never find some trueborn and reject him.   
“Ahhh!” Sansa screams a breathy, girlish scream as she tightens around Jon’s cock. “Fuck!” Sansa finishes on a whimper. 

“Never thought I’d hear that from your pretty little mouth.” Jon chuckles tightly in her ear as he very reluctantly pulls his throbbing member out of her. Every brush against her walls feels torturous as he bites back an orgasm. 

“What are you doing?” 

“I won’t father a bastard.” Jon manages to groan.

As soon as he’s out of Sansa, Jon’s hand goes to work. It only takes a few stokes to his throbbing member for him to spill gooey whiteness onto Sansa’s stomach. Jon likes the way it looks on her, like a claim.

“I hope you don’t mind the mess.”

Sansa shakes her head. She kind of likes how it looks too. “You do owe me a new dress though. You’re lucky I didn’t make that one myself.”

Jon thinks his face will get sore from smiling so much but he doesn’t mind.

“Anything for you, my lady.” 

Sansa smiles back, not allowing her mind to wander to the body lying across the floor.


End file.
